The small causes court sits on Thursdays. When Father’s away I preside. There were fourteen plaints to be heard. I dealt with them all, albeit as the sun rose to the meridian and then crossed it, I became impatient. The seventh was the most interesting, perhaps because it was not about being done out of money or land but afforded a change of pace and a bit of humour.
An old, bent dhobi, I would have sworn it was the same washerman who besmirched Sita’s name and obliged Lord Rama to banish her into the wilderness some two thousand years ago, was now casting aspersions on his wife’s virtue.
‘She has a lover, maybe several,’ his voice was thick with chronic bronchitis and he had to clear his throat many times before he could speak.
‘Do you?’ I asked his wife. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen. How naive, or hypocritical, can one get in court? Did I really expect her to smile demurely and tell the court who she was sleeping with?
I was sitting in a small semi-hexagonal balcony which jutted out from the sheer rear wall of the palace my great grandfather Maharana Kumbha had built. She and the other litigants stood fifteen feet below. Her head was covered with a green and yellow bandhani chunni which was tucked into the cleavage of her blouse. I was sure I had seen that chunni before. The sun got into her eyes when she raised her head to answer me. She bent forward and drew the silk covering her head down, to shield her eyes. Her ivory bangles, each bigger than the previous one, clattered down into the angle at her elbow. Her breasts, the colour of fine sand at Pushkar, were exposed for a brief second. I could feel Mangal’s eyes at the back of my neck. I still couldn’t figure out why that chunni was so familiar.
‘Ask him,’ she ignored my question, ‘if he has performed his husbandly duty by me even once after my father got me married to him two years ago.’ Her forthrightness was as unsettling as it was unexpected. Her eyes held mine. There was no bitterness in her voice; a matter-of-factness, that’s all.
‘Is this true?’ I asked her husband.
‘What do you think? Would any man, least of all her lawful husband, be able to keep his hands off such succulent fruit?’
‘What is your age, old man?’
‘What’s that got to do with her infidelity?’
‘Don’t be impertinent or I’ll have you thrashed.’
‘I was washing clothes before His Majesty, your father, was born but I’m still able. I was the Hatyara’s dhobi. Never was a king so obsessed with cleanliness. But he could never wash the blood off his hands. He was always on the run. Where he went, I went.’
‘You have a loose tongue, old man. It’ll tie a noose around your neck one of these days.’
‘I know the Hatyara’s name is taboo, but his father had no intention of dying or relinquishing his throne. Thirty-five years is a long time to wait. Do you blame him if he lost his patience and got rid of Rana Kumbha? Would you do any the less if Rana Sanga, your father, may he live forever, hangs on to his crown thirty, forty or fifty years from now?’
‘Were it not for your age, old man, you would die for treason. Even so, you’ll receive ten lashes after the court rises.’
‘That will not dampen my virility, Your Highness.’
I was beginning to tire of his garrulousness.
‘That remains to be seen. Go to the brothel at the end of Tamarind Lane on Monday night and prove your prowess in Rasikabai’s bed. I’ll defer my judgement till she gives me her report.’
‘And were I to fail, and I say this merely as a point in rhetoric, does that justify my wife’s infidelity?’
‘Even if you prove your virility with Rasikabai, you’ll still need to produce proof of your wife’s unfaithfulness.’
I like to be at work by six thirty in the morning. That gives me an hour and a half to scrutinize the papers, appraise individual issues, take decisions, jot down my remarks in the margins and move on to more pressing matters. Around nine, while I was conferring with Sahasmal from the Department of City Planning about digging a couple of wells, since the population of the town had risen by over a thousand in the last year, a courier from Father arrived. The confrontation with the Sultan of Gujarat was proving to be more difficult than Father had anticipated and he now needed money to pay the troops, buy victuals and enlist the support of two score and ten rawals and rawats and their garrisons.
There was of course no money in the exchequer. We fought endless wars so that our enemies would sue for peace and fill our coffers, and immediately emptied them to pay back the interest — settling the original sum was out of the question — to our gracious financiers, the Mehtas. And borrowed from them on the instant to finance further wars which, in turn, would fill our treasuries to bursting and ease the pressure of interest payments, and so on and so forth, till the vicious circle had become the web at the centre of which we were stuck like flies being slowly sucked of all juice.
I sent a message to the treasury, Kuber Bhavan, asking the grand old man, Adinath Mehta, to do me the favour of conferring with me in my private chambers. Adinathji had refined the game of protocol, wherein he had the upper hand but placed himself in the position of a supplicant, to a minor art form. Would I do him the honour of going over in the evening for a game of chess followed by dinner? His wife, happy coincidence, had prepared my favourite sweet, rabadi. It would be a change of atmosphere from the affairs of state and his great-granddaughter, Leelawati, would be delighted to show me how much progress she had made in embroidering the royal insignia for the flag which would accompany me when I led our troops in battle.
The rabadi was a nice touch since Adinathji was only too aware that I had taken a dislike to all sweets made from milk in recent years. But who was I to refuse an invitation from the great Adinathji? Besides, the nine-year-old Leelawati, if she was allowed to be around by the patriarch, would more than compensate for any discomfort suffered in the financier’s company. She was a superb mimic, quick-witted, precocious in the extreme, obstinate and a surprisingly shrewd judge of character.
‘You don’t have to dine early, Your Highness. There’s some dispute about whether Mahavirji really enjoined us Jains to eat before sundown but as you know, I like to play it safe. I try to rationalize and tell myself it’s good for the digestion, especially at my age. You, of course, have no such problems.’
What would happen if I said, ‘Yes indeed, I will eat later’ and added as an afterthought, ‘After I’ve had a few drinks’?
Needless to say, nothing would happen. The absolutely unlined face of Adinathji would not furrow or show the slightest sign of discomfiture. Were I to ask for a woman from the sweet and sour Tamarind Lane, he would respond with a ‘How thoughtless of me not to have made arrangements,’ and proceed to instruct one of the security personnel to send for Kajribai or someone as expensive. After a decent interval of say, forty-five minutes, he would let me know that he was extremely sorry but the carriage had met with an accident and the poor lady had broken her seventh vertebra or cracked open her skull or lost all her teeth.
The food, as usual, was good without being fussy. I marvel at a cuisine which is so circumscribed; no garlic, no onion, no root-vegetables and of course, no game or mutton, fish or fowl, and yet seems to suggest that what it lacks is but superfluous. Daal bati, rotis of cornflour, khatti daal chawal, gatte ki sabji, kanji wadas, and maal pohe. I knew that the meal was not complete and did a good imitation of surprise and delight when Adinathji’s wife brought out my favourite sangri beans boiled and then fried in oil and spices. Ghee, I’m aware, is the mark of hospitality but I wish Shrimati Mehta was a little less prodigal with it. I felt bloated as a dead ox which has been water-logged for a week or two but there was no gainsaying the lady of the house when she sent for the dessert, bundi sheera.
We moved to the drawing room and sat down to play. I had the curious feeling that life itself was a game of chess for Adinathji. Every move was planned in advance: the invitation, the bait of Leelawati (I had asked for her twice and was told she was coming but there was no sign of her), the food, the chess. If the whole ritual was familiar, it was because I had played the game often in the past. Skip a step and the game would never end. Adinathji, more than most people, knew that ends are what games are played for.
This was good training for me. When in a hurry, take it easy, breathe deeply, go slow. I knew I was playing well but I also knew that he was playing with me. Perhaps it had something to do with the non-violent creed of his religion. The only battles that he and his kin fought, the only blood they spilt was on the chessboard. Massacres and carnage were not to his taste. He preferred the long, slow, tortuous death. I knew that he had designs on my vazir, which is why he left him alone.
It was ironic how all the kings in India, at least all those I knew, were financed by Adinathji’s kinsmen, the Jains. His son-in-law, Sahadevnath, stood surety for the Sultan of Gujarat whom my father was fighting. Ibrahim Lodi in Delhi leaned on Shrimati Adinath Mehta’s brother. Adinathji’s youngest son had relocated in Malwa and was lending money to the chief money-lender to the throne there. The ironies resonated a little more deviously than that. The Jain mind is an abacus. It sees everything in terms of numbers. Like interest, you earn merit.
You give alms, you earn merit. You feed the poor or the Digambaras, you collect some more merit. Pacifism is a capital investment of the highest order. It’s a kind of super-compound interest scheme with an eye on both heaven and earth. Extend the metaphor and it has a foot in the here and now, and the ever-after. Let’s look at the latter first. The more merit you earn, the more you are likely to abridge the number of reincarnations you have to go through to reach the kind of enlightened state which gets you to moksha. In the meanwhile, just see how profitable the fruits of non-violence are in this life. You stay pure while someone else, someone like me and my Rajput clan, does the sinning and the killing. While you religiously refrain from bloodying your hands, you lend vast sums of money to finance the mightiest armies at minuscule decimal point percentages which add up to monstrous sums as interest. Whatever the outcome in the killing fields, we warriors protect you. We often die; you live unscathed to finance another war. And here’s the best part: thanks to in-laws, nephews, cousins and the whole unbelievable complex of the extended family, your interests are safeguarded in every way, and you emerge substantially richer whoever wins, be it friend or foe.
I seem to have got my knife into Adinathji and his tribe today. Why do I become so unreasonable in his presence? He’s never self-righteous and he would just as willingly — perhaps far more happily and with a clearer conscience — put his money into building forts or dams or business ventures as he would into bank-rolling wars. Perhaps it’s because I see myself crawling or maybe it’s the fact that we need him more than he needs us.
There, he has made his penultimate move. By various feints and manoeuvres and the sacrifice of pawns and horses, he has got my vazir to expose the king. Now for the swift kill. But, of course, the elegant fell stroke is never administered. Having established his Grand Master status once again, he’ll now let me win through a transparently bogus mistake. But Leelawati has rushed in, scattered my embattled and besieged king and Adinathji’s hordes and jumped straight into my lap. Her knee squashes my left testicle while she beats a tattoo on my chest.
‘You didn’t even tell me you were coming.’ I try to breathe. The universe is out of focus. I cannot tell whether it is my groin that hurts or my chest or throat. ‘You must have come to borrow money from great-grandfather. That’s why you came furtively and will leave shame-faced.’
Adinathji’s waxen face with its butter-soft complexion colours slightly. I am pleased to find traces of blood and humanity there. His great-granddaughter has truly embarrassed him.
‘Leave us, you hussy. I never thought I would live to see the day when my own blood would insult the heir-apparent. I will never be able to raise my head in front of you, Your Highness.’ Adinathji was not feigning chagrin. He may reserve his opinion of me but his loyalty to the House of Mewar was unqualified.
‘Let her be.’ I had finally found my voice. ‘I asked for you. Twice. They said you were coming but you were playing hard to get like the Id ka chand.’
‘Nobody told me. I bet Dada wanted to talk business with you, tell you how short money is these days and raise the interest one seventh of one percent and that’s why I was kept in the dark.’
Was it possible for the great Adinathji, the financier of last resort to the prime financiers of this country and others, to squirm after he had already been subjected to the indignity of blushing? Leelawati, you may pound the other testicle to a nice round coin and I’ll still owe you one.
‘What have you got for me?’ Her arms were around my neck.
‘What have you got for me?’ I was fully recovered.
‘Ha, I have something for you even though I didn’t know you were coming.’ She was up and away and back in a trice with a piece of cloth. It was a red pennant with my ancestor, the Sun-god, embroidered in gold brocade. The eyes, the moustache, the haughty lips, the thirty-six rays, she had got them all to perfection. ‘Damn,’ she snatched the flag from my hands. ‘I wanted to first see what you’d got for me.’
‘Whatever it is, it couldn’t possibly compare with your gift.’
‘Let me be the judge,’ Leelawati cut me short. ‘Show me.’
I gave her the present I had brought. She undid the silk scarf wrapping and stared in disbelief. ‘It’s a sundial. Did you make it with your own hands?’
‘I wrapped it with my own hands.’ I tried to make a joke of it but was conscious of how cold and dull my present was, compared to the effort and affection she had expended on hers.
‘Great minds think alike. See, both of us had the same motif in mind. Are those real rubies that mark the hours?’
‘You’ve got to be joking. Just ordinary pieces of broken glass I picked up in the garden.’
That disconcerted her till I smiled.
‘They are, they are, you liar.’ She hugged me tightly.
Adinathji and I settled the business of the loan quickly. One eighth of one percent less interest than the last time.
It was late when I returned home. I let Mangal stable the horses and slowly climbed up the stairs. Queen Karmavati was waiting for me. A little unusual to see her at this hour and that, too, in my chambers. Normally she would have summoned me to her wing. Was Father all right? I saw the vermillion sindoor on her forehead and the bangles on her hand and relaxed.
‘Why are you limping?’
I wasn’t. More like shuffling, trying not to agitate the soft swollen rocks at my crotch. ‘A little weary, I guess. Could do with some rest.’ I thought that was neatly done. A subtle hint to postpone the interview to a more sanguine hour. She was not about to fall for this pathetic ploy.
‘How did the meeting with Mehtaji go? And what rate did the two of you decide upon? I bet he took you for a ride and we are all going to have to pay for it.’
No point asking my second mother how she knew that I had gone to Adinathji’s and what I had discussed with him. Mother made it a point to know anything and everything that happened in Chittor or outside, if she felt that there was an ultra-remote chance that it might affect her future. Information, she believed, was not everything; it was the only thing. The sad part was that she often lost sight of the fact that it was a means and not an end in itself. If she had it, even if it was useless, she felt in control. There was no point getting mad with her. I have, to this day, not understood why Father didn’t appoint his favourite queen head of intelligence.
Queen Karmavati had a complicated network of spies and the most tortuous but fail-safe way of checking whether the information she received was a hundred percent reliable. Add to that, her astounding arsenal of grilling techniques. She was single-minded, uncouth and effective. She would stoop or rise to any means; tease, coax, cajole, threaten, blackmail, broker, barter, whatever it took to elicit some inane, nasty or critical tidbit.
She wasn’t likely to leave until she had stripped me of the entire day’s details. I was too tired to be perverse and parry her queries. I made a clean breast of everything. There was nothing I could do to assuage her voracious appetite for gossip, hearsay, rumours, omens, insinuations, arcane references and obtuse offences.
‘Surely you didn’t come at this time of the night for this inconsequential tittle-tattle.’
‘Let me be the judge of that. You may be heir apparent but, let me hasten to add, more apparent than heir, at least so far.’
The rivers of maternal affection were in spate tonight. I was the first-born and Queen Karmavati was not about to forgive me that. It is her son Vikramaditya she favours for the crown.
‘I came about the nautch girl in your harem. Are you man enough to keep her under control? Or do you want me to do it for you?’
The nautch girl she was referring to had just drawn in a soft sibilant breath of pain and hurt. After years of abuse, my wife had still not got used to the Queen’s endearing references to her. She had been standing behind the curtain of coloured glass beads for at least half an hour now, waiting patiently with a silver lota of water. She had spent over a month threading the musical beads. If you stood at a little distance from the curtain, you could see a peacock with a telescoped neck and a very long feathery tail. There was something queer about its left eye. She had inserted the wrong shade of bead there; it looked as if it was walleyed.
I have told her not to wait up for me. Today, yesterday or ever. But she does as she pleases. My wife has a mind of her own. When Mother Karmavati leaves, she’ll come out, pour the water into the intricately carved gold tumbler which also serves as the lid of the silver lota, hand it to me, and then remove my shoes.
I can do no wrong in her eyes. That is not quite true. She has a highly-developed ethical sense but I am permitted anything, well, almost. I am certainly forgiven everything. Tantrums, ill humour, physical violence, the crassest of behaviour, politeness, bewilderment, despair, wild and vile swings in moods. What I bid her, she’ll do uncomplainingly, except for one thing. I am treated as a child. What I do, say, or think, does not affect her.
‘In the last six months alone, I have brought you no less than seventeen proposals.’ It is my second mother who cuts my pointless meandering short. ‘Even the most conjugally happy princes marry several wives. Look at your father. He loves me dearly but he knows his duty. Marriages are political alliances. They are also a safeguard. They ensure a long line of succession and they prevent any queen from getting too big for her shoes.’
Mother should talk. She’s got feet bigger than Chittor, bigger than Rajasthan, bigger than the throne of Delhi, and she’s constantly putting them in her mouth. Where was this homily on marriages leading to? I have been married once and I’m sick of it to the pit of my stomach. Does the queen really love my father? I respect him as I respect no other man but then I don’t have to sleep with him. How can any woman bear to look at him, let alone make love to him? My wife fainted the first time she saw him. Father pretended that it was the heat or maybe the effect of one of those long and dire fasts young women undertake before marriage. But he is too shrewd not to know that nightmares and the villains in Pataldesh look less terrifying than him. One eye he lost to his brother, an arm to the Lodi of Delhi, the drag in his right foot he owes to Muzaffar of Gujarat, and as to the cuts and nicks and wounds and slashes on his torso, the dummies we use for target practice are more whole than him. There are few men braver or more driven than Father. Perhaps bravery is the ultimate addiction.
‘Are you listening, you fool? I can see your eyes floating in sleep but there are matters here that need urgent attention. The nautch girl.’
I was wondering when you were going to come back to my wife, for this nocturnal visit could only be inspired by your daughter-in-law. ‘She has cut off our noses. And our izzat. Our illustrious family name is mud. While Chittor burns, your nautch girl continues to dance.’
Anything for a vivid phrase, Mother. No flames here, though; the last ones were quenched over two hundred years ago when Rani Padmini and her women jumped into the johar fires the day Alauddin Khilji captured Chittor. But the phrase which the visitor from across the seas used, I believe, was Emperor Nero sang and fiddled while Rome burnt.
The eunuch, Bruhannada who was a silent party to our conversation had a slight, supercilious smirk on his lips. I would have preferred it if Queen Karmavati had not spoken about these things in front of him; or the eunuch had had the decency to excuse himself while matters of state or the business about my wife was discussed. But that would only amount to deluding myself. There’s hardly anything that transpires in the palace and at Chittor that the Queen’s eunuch is not privy to. He is clever, devious and I sometimes suspect, he is the Queen’s evil genius. His etiquette is impeccable and he is always careful to do the bare minimum of bowing and scraping that protocol says is the Maharaj Kumar’s due. I am never less than civil to Bruhannada but there is a coldness in my heart that would rather not utter his name or deal with him.
‘Dance? You mean bathroom singing?’ I had vowed not to utter a word but the queen always succeeds in subverting my silent resolves.
‘The tawaif has graduated from mere singing to dancing. She was swirling on the first floor of the Tridev Mandir while the crowds, eunuches, princes, servants, maids, princesses and queens watched from below. A fine view from under the latticed balustrade as her skirts rose and billowed. A riveting sight even for weary eyes like mine.’
The Tridev Mandir. My grandfather Raimul built it for the family when he beat the forces of the Hatyara Uda and was crowned. One of my favourite temples. Nothing elaborate. Delicately but not excessively carved. Serene. Private. It has a terraced structure. Eklingji Shiva on the ground floor, the Flautist on the first and the Sun-god on the second.
‘I’ll wager my brother Vikramaditya had ring-side seats.’
‘Leave him out of this. He is not the issue. The tawaif is. Besides, if his wife was dancing, you too would have been there gaping.’
‘She’s not even fourteen yet.’
‘What difference does her age make? The older you men get, the younger you want your pleasures. Look at your uncles. They want girls before they reach puberty.’
Was this true? Would I too end up like them?
‘Get rid of her before she makes our family the laughing stock of Rajasthan.’
She placed my foot on her knee to remove my mojari. I raised it and lifted her face up. She did not withdraw her eyes.
‘Did you? Did you actually dance?’
‘I don’t remember.’
My foot slammed into her face. It was not the hardest of blows but it knocked her down. The lota rolled over several times before it clattered to a halt. Her lower lip was cut open, the blood had stained her blouse, the water from the lota had wet the back of her petticoat. She took my foot in her hands again, disengaged the shoe and brought my toe to her left eye first and then let it touch her right eye. I was her lord and master and she would not do me out of acts of obeisance. She did not ask why or wherefore, nor look aggrieved or wipe the blood from her lip. She was unconcerned whether I kicked her again or not.
I must have groaned.
‘Are you hurt?’ she asked me and wiped my brow. I winced at the touch of her hand. Was ever a human hand so soothing? I could have wrenched her arm from her shoulder and flung it out of the fort. She picked up the lota, went out, filled it up and came back. She began to unbutton my duglo. I strode out in a dudgeon but was sure that she hadn’t noticed my theatrical exit.
I went to the stables and got the syce who was asleep to saddle Befikir. Mangal hurried after me. He looked puzzled and unsure of himself. Perhaps my sudden departures and swings of mood were taking their toll of him too. But his anxieties lay in another direction.
‘What should I do with her?’ he asked softly,
I gaped at his presumption. I may be livid with her but she was my wife. How dare he concern himself with her. ‘Who are you talking about?’ I asked brusquely.
‘The woman whom you saw in court the other day.’
‘Which woman? Can’t she wait till Thursday for me to look into her case?’
‘It’s the woman whose husband was complaining that she had been faithless.’ He was still talking in conspiratorial tones.
‘I didn’t ask for her.’
‘I know but I thought Your Highness might perhaps enjoy a new face.’
‘Did she want to come?’ That was the trouble with trusted old retainers. They think they know your mind better than you.
‘Gladly.’
‘And what about her husband? What if he cites me as the corespondent in the case?’
‘He’ll be away all night. He’s being tested at Rasikabai’s.’
‘You are a clever fox, Mangal, but I hope not too clever by half. What if she’s promiscuous and has some disease?’
‘Trust me, Highness.’
‘What does that mean? Like Shabari, have you tasted the fruit before your master?’
‘The Lord be praised. I thought you had given up wit and smiling altogether.’
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘She’s a virgin.’
‘Oh no, not a virgin please.’ He caught the dismay in my face and interpreted it as a moral scruple.
‘And in a hurry to lose her innocence. I have left her in the Chandra Mahal.’
‘Have her sent to the palace.’ Mangal looked as if I had singed him with a hot iron rod.
‘My prince, ghanikhama, but isn’t that going too far?’
‘You heard me.’ At least this one wasn’t a dancing girl like the one at home. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Sunheria.’
The syce had gone back to sleep. I kicked him, not too hard. He woke up and looked bewildered. The timekeeper’s bell tolled for midnight. The sentry called out darkly, ‘Jagte raho.’
‘Have you saddled her yet or not?’
‘I have, my Lord.’
‘Then what are you waiting for? Hold her steady.’
Mangal caught up with me in a minute; and the two of us rode out of the fort. The sentry at the Suraj Pol would not allow us to pass until I gave him the password. Since last year, we’ve initiated the system of leaving a different password for every gate to tighten security. Too many mercenaries and spies doing the rounds these days. Must pull up the sentries at the other three pols we passed. Should have seen the smirks on their faces. I’m sure they think we are going to ride to the next town for a night of debauchery.
The Ganga may be a holier river, it certainly is mightier but it is not my river. The Gambhiree is my mother and my memory.
As she is Chittor’s mother and memory. They bathed me with her waters when I was born and, God willing, they will wash me with her before placing me on the pyre. She is privy to all my doings, my innermost thoughts and the dilemma that wracks my soul. She is not judgmental and she has no answers. Her role is to witness all but she may not interfere. Perhaps she has opinions, even strong views, but she holds her tongue forever. Where do songs go when you cease to hear them? Where does the turbulence of the air disappear after thousands of birds flap their wings homeward at eventide? Where are the cries of the Rajput women who spatter their red palm prints on the wall and leap into the flames of johar? Where is my childhood, my catapult, my broken slate, my first parrot, my youth and first sin and all those that followed, where is my old age and the first time I saw the woman from Merta? Ask Gambhiree. She knows it all. We are all safe because Gambhiree will keep her secrets. She is, as her name suggests, deep and sombre and meditative.
There is a mist on the river. The air is stifling, the moon is marooned in dark, sinister clouds. I take off my clothes, say my prayer and slip into Gambhiree. The water is black and cold. I sink in it like a stone. I let go. I float up. The waters swish around me. The strands of my muscles uncoil and my thoughts unravel. Black oblivion runs through my veins. Beware the river tonight. The tall ebony grasses sway sinuously and ensnare my feet. They call to me to come and forget the world above. Yama is abroad on his buffalo tonight. The river is his sister Yami. She is the temptress Death. Who can say no to Yami? Even her brother lies with her.
Flimsy phantoms rise to meet me. The watery faces of my ancestors scream soundlessly, their fluid octopus hands stretch and coil around me. Bappa Rawal, Rana Hameer, Rani Padmini, Hatyara, they all have urgent business with me but I can no longer lip-read their cacophony of demands. Perhaps if I sink deeper into the underworld, I’ll be able to help them.
Somebody’s pulling me up against my wishes. The gentleness of the undertow of the currents is deceptive. It’s going to kill me softly, sucking me down a spiral vortex. I can hear Mangal calling my name now. I do not respond. The river is my quietus and I have no intention of surfacing again. Mangal’s cries become more urgent and desperate. I wish he would leave me alone. He has spotted me and is forcing me up. It’s raining heavily. The raindrops pinch the skin of the river in a million places. My skin smarts as they pierce it and go right through. I am awake. Mangal calls out my name as if I had died. The water laps gently over me. I am exorcised of my demons. The moon is out and Gambhiree is a slow silver enchantress.
As Mangal and I ride back, I have no memory of swimming in the river. My body is the ebb and rise of black water.
The lights are on in my palace when I return. It’s like Diwali. She is awake. She’s wearing a screeching yellow silk ghagra with a pink chunni. Her blouse is the green of first grass. She has dressed Sunheria, the ancient dhobi’s wife, in new red brocade clothes and made her up to look like a bride.
